DIASPORIC LITERATURE - diasporic.org - eBooks4Greeks.gr

SHORT STORY Εnglish LanguageThat DayGabrielle MorganPhilip Island,Victoria, AustraliaOften a day can be quite remarkable. That day for me was the day I went in search ofthe village of my ancestors.I was alone in England, my first visit away from Australia, when I set out from London bytrain for Penzance, the southern most point in Cornwall. It was a seaside resort wherequaint old granite stone houses have been withstanding the Atlantic gales for centuries.The old buildings and mysterious alleyways in the town were a reminder of the smugglingand plundering which had gone on there centuries before. It was easy to visualise thoseearlier times and sense the hardship people must have suffered.The Benedictine monks had built a priory in the twelfth century on a small offshore island,now known as St. Michael’s Mount. It later became a castle and was the scene of manymilitary sieges. A boat took me out to the Mount where I braced myself against the strongwind to climb the steps to the door of the castle. Looking back to the mainland, where allthe small stone cottages from previous centuries still remained, I was transported in timeand once inside the castle, I was completely entranced by the history within its walls.The antiquity of Penzance enthralled me and I was tempted to stay longer, but the dayarrived for me to investigate ‘Luxulyan,’ the small village where I believed my ancestorsoriginated from. At home in Australia, I had studied this spot on a map and was intriguedto find out what it would look like in reality. So, I packed my suitcase to leave the B. & B.where I was staying and after a lengthy chat with the proprietor who provided me witha vivid picture of Cornish life over the preceding few hundred years, I departed Penzanceby train.To negotiate my journey to Luxulyan involved three train connections, and as it was theweekend, a wait of two hours at St.Austell station between trains. However, not to beput off by the look of amazement on the Porter’s face when I told him my destinationwas ‘Luxulyan’ or by his comment,“What are you going there for? There’s nothing of interest there.”I proceeded on.I had intended to make a return journey to St. Austell in one day, but due to the long waitbetween connections this idea now seemed unlikely, so I enlisted the help of a kindly girlin the bus depot outside the station. I told her I wanted to visit the town of my ancestorsand would like to find accommodation for the weekend. After three phone calls toestablishments that were all booked out, she managed to secure accommodation at a B.& B. said to be situated at the top of a hill overlooking the town.Eventually, after a seemingly endless wait, I was seated in a two carriage train whichwound through the magical woods of Luxulyan Valley. If Robin Hood had popped out Iwouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.When the train pulled into Luxulyan, I struggled out of the carriage with my suitcase anddragged it along the gravel platform. Remembering the Porter’s words, I was relievedand agreeably surprised to see some quaint stone cottages across the road from thestation. A taxi was already waiting for me. The driver, a very pleasant English woman,chatted easily as we drove into the village along the most picturesque street I had everseen. The cab wound around past the old village pub and along a hedged lane which79 Diasporic Literature/Διασπορική Λογοτεχνία/Literatura de Diasporic - http://diasporic.orgIssue 1 Vol. 1, Μarch 2011